


bestial

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bestiality, Body Horror, Bottom Will Graham, Collars, Creampie, Creature Fic, Exhibitionism, Knotting, M/M, Masks, Master/Slave, Other, Restraints, Voyeurism, Werewolf Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: This is a rarity, in that Doctor Lecter has no sketches or photographs of the beast in the museum, or hanging on the walls in the typical banners. Normally there is some image of the thing, to let people know what they're in for, but there is nothing. The stage is notably barren, and dark.Until the lights go up, and there is a collective drawn-in breath, held in anticipation.
Relationships: Will Graham & Will Graham's Dogs, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 41
Kudos: 318
Collections: Just Fuck Me Up 2020, Just Fuck Me Up.





	bestial

There is a beast in the mountains. Or, there was.

Doctor Lecter's Curiosities and Exotics is a world-renowned show, drawing the endless fervent crowds, from the penniless street urchin to the heiress and ever-generous benefactor. Doctor Lecter is an artist, they say, he has such a skill for finding the macabre and the ugly, the exciting and interesting. The bestial, the repugnant, the divine.

He has a new display this season, they whisper to each other. A creature who is neither monster nor man. Some unholy matrimony of both. They giggle excitedly behind their hands and fans, saying that the creature was hunted by Doctor Lecter himself, that he found it in the wilds of the American mountains. That it can shed its skin at will and devours the flesh of man and has a specific aversion to silver.

The museum has glass cages where there are tamer attractions. Those that are benign – the wide-eyed little girl with the gossamer wings of a butterfly, surely too delicate to support her weight, that twitch with all the colors of stained glass. A single clip on the bottom of her left wing prevents her from flitting away – purely humane, Doctor Lecter's guides assure them. She seems happy enough, lavishing in her golden cage that rocks on a mechanical swing, little glass baubles shining above her large-pupiled, hazy eyes. She hums a little song and waves to the children when they peer at her.

There are stuffed creatures that expired before he could bring them to this place. A hoard of taxidermized half breeds. A thing with the head of an eagle and a lion and a goat, the tail of a snake, wings that are far too large to have belonged to any bat. A sphynx, carefully placed in a regal pose, her human eyes closed, and one paw outstretched. If you place a coin in the slot carved into her palm, she will give you a riddle. If you guess it right, you win a prize.

A little gauche, perhaps, but one must do one's best to keep the masses entertained.

Doctor Lecter's museum has a small amphitheater, where he will give lectures and demonstrations for any new attraction in his museum. The stage is flat stone, remade after the unfortunate incident with the fire-breathing lizard that almost burned the entire place down. There are walls at waist height around the stage to prevent people from coming too close, and seats stretch up in a semicircle all around the stage.

Today, it is standing room only, onlookers packed to the gills in an attempt to see Doctor Lecter's newest acquisition from the Americas. They whisper to each other: What could he have for us this time? I have heard the thing is horribly deformed, when it changes. Do you think he can make it change? What happens when you touch it with silver?

This is a rarity, in that Doctor Lecter has no sketches or photographs of the beast in the museum, or hanging on the walls in the typical banners. Normally there is some image of the thing, to let people know what they're in for, but there is nothing. The stage is notably barren, and dark.

Until the lights go up, and there is a collective drawn-in breath, held in anticipation.

Hannibal smiles, and steps out onto the stage to a chorus of applause. Not too raucous, his audience knows better than to spook or excite the beasts. Still, he holds up a hand for their attention, and his smile is wide.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he says, in his normal greeting. "Welcome to my museum." He folds his hands together and lets them hang in front of him, the picture of ease. Behind him, two of his helpers drag out a large covered box, which is set on wheels to allow it movement. They pull the box to a halt in the middle of the stage and carefully heft it to the ground, wheeling the cart away. "I have a very special spectacle for all of you today."

From beneath the cover, there is a low snarl.

"As you all know," Hannibal continues, gesturing to the box. "I recently spent some time in America. I heard tell of a creature that was terrorizing the local farmers in the mountains, a thing neither man nor entirely beast."

Another cart is wheeled out, with his tools for the demonstration. He smiles as he catches another susurrus move through the crowd. They are a bloodthirsty lot, loving the opportunities he gives them to jeer and relish in the destruction of something they can detest openly. They are a God-fearing people, and surely are doing God's work, judging and debasing the monsters that wander the Earth.

"I investigated for a time, learning what I could about the creature," he continues. "Finally, while I was there, it struck again. The destruction it left in its wake, ladies and gentlemen; it is a horror I cannot fully describe. Truly a revolting and animal instinct existed in this creature. One that I felt compelled to capture and bring back to show all of you."

He approaches the box, smiling at the low, angry snarl that rumbles from within. The box shakes, strong iron bars creaking as the creature within it twists around inside. He wraps his fingers in the heavy canvass covering and pulls it up, and off the box, tossing it to the back of the stage with a flourish.

"I have named him 'Will'," Hannibal says. "The American beast."

The box itself is not a four-walled structure. That would defeat the purpose, for no glass would hold Will inside it, and the point of these demonstrations is to see the creatures he displays. Instead, it is two large horseshoes of iron on either side of a wooden palette. On it, he has bound the creature down with thick, coarse ropes, behind his knees and around his ankles. He is kneeling, back arched and head bent, a thick leather collar around his neck from which more ropes bind him to the steel. His arms are held behind him, stretched out to show the muscles bunched in his shoulders, his white-knuckled fists. His wrists are held at the back of the horseshoes, just past the apex, so that he cannot lift his arms and get the leverage to fight himself free, nor will his neck allow any free range of movement for his savage teeth.

A curious whisper runs through the crowd. Why, he appears as merely a man, they say. But no, no, Doctor Lecter always provides a spectacle, they must be patient.

He approaches Will and stands at the corner of Will's palette, and puts a hand in his hair. Will snarls, bucking as much as he's able, so strong that the iron rattles and the ropes creak with the effort of holding him down.

"Will is, as far as I'm aware, a rare manifestation of the more classic Lycan mutation I have shown you in previous demonstrations," he says, idly tugging at one of Will's wild curls. Though Will cannot lift his head, Hannibal is sure the creature is staring daggers at the ground. Will's mouth is parted, his breathing heavy, saliva dripping like syrup from his fangs. "Perhaps there are other such hybrids in America – without further patronage, that question may remain unanswered."

He pets down Will's bare back, his nails leaving red lines on the creature's pale, sweaty skin. Will arches into the touch almost helplessly, his snarls for a moment growing quiet. Until Hannibal reaches one of the scars whipped into his back, and they begin anew.

"Will possesses typical heightened senses I have observed from studying others similar to his species. His hearing," he snaps his fingers together and Will flinches, "is impeccable, his sense of smell delicate enough to forage in the wild."

He circles around to Will's front, and crouches down. Now that they are at eye level, he can see the dark, deep blue in the creature's enraged eyes, that stared at him as they did from the brush on their first meeting. He had gleaned rather quickly that, though Will is large and undoubtedly capable of hunting large game, his diet consisted mostly of birds and rodents. The largest thing Hannibal heard a farmer tell him Will had attacked was a spring lamb. Hannibal is too large for Will to see as food, which only leaves him as a threat.

He reaches out and Will snaps his teeth together in warning, a powerful rumble rattling over his tongue. But he cannot lunge forward, lest he dislocate his shoulders, and he cannot shy back because of the way his neck and his knees are bound.

Hannibal grips his chin harshly, and moves to one side, his other hand in Will's hair and yanking his head up. The creature's back dips in an effort to save his shoulders and he gasps, trying to fight his head free, but Hannibal has him in a strong lock and, when he squeezes around the collar at the back of Will's neck, Will goes limp.

"Hopefully you can all see," he adds, and drags his thumb over Will's lip like a lover, before he pushes it up to reveal Will's top row of teeth. They appear normal, for now, aside from the over-pronounced canines, that do not look entirely out of place in his mouth but definitely add to the construct of his otherness. It is not his human teeth Hannibal is interested in showing all these curious eyes, after all.

He works the nail of his thumb into the gumline above Will's incisors, and Will growls, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as Hannibal's nail finds the little slit above his human teeth and forcibly coaxes the tip of his second set free. Will's incisors and canines all posses a second set that Hannibal noted come out while he is distressed, or hungry. He massages the base of the tooth and Will whimpers, fists clenching as Hannibal forces it to descend over his normal tooth, until he feels it lock into place.

He smiles. "As you can see, even in his human skin, he cannot hide his evolution." He releases the base of the tooth and Will growls as it retracts back into his gum, a small bead of blood coating his human teeth from the sharp incisor being forced out.

He releases Will, and steps away as the creature bares his teeth and snarls at him. "But I know you are all here to see something truly special. Something I intend to show you. You all know I pride myself on showing you the true nature of the world in which we live – there are no parlor tricks, no falsehoods.

To that end, I will invite a volunteer up from the audience." There is a small beat of silence, tense and eager. "I assure you, it's quite safe."

After a moment, a timid hand rises. Hannibal smiles, and approaches the wall, meeting the eyes of the woman who had volunteered. She is a repeat patron of his museum, and well-known in the community as an honest woman. "Lady Verger," he greets with a respectful bow of his head. He holds his hand out to her, and she places her tiny hand in his. She stands, and moves from her seat, coming around to the gate in the front of the wall. He opens it for her and helps her onto the stage. "You're looking well. How is your brother? And your wife?"

"Both well, Doctor, thank you," Lady Verger replies with a wide smile. "They will kick themselves for not joining me today."

Around her, the sheep chuckle and bleat to themselves.

Hannibal smiles. "Perhaps I will see their faces in the next audience," he says coolly. He leads her over to the small tray of implements. Her cheeks pale at the sight of them, and Hannibal lifts one from the table. It is a mask, clear and slightly bulbous to accommodate something like a dog's muzzle, with thick brown leather straps to attach it to a head. "Here." He hands it to her. "Inspect it at your leisure. You can see there is no mechanism within it, no mirror glass to create an illusion or any such thing."

"No, Doctor Lecter," she replies, handing it back.

Hannibal smiles. "You will see, here, that the innards of the edge of the muzzle have been stitched with silver thread." He shows it to her, and she nods, wide-eyed. He gestures for her to stand beside the tray, and speaks louder as he approaches Will with the muzzle in hand. "Will shares his species' aversion to silver. If it gets into his bloodstream, he becomes very sick, and might die if injured too badly with a silver weapon. Small contact causes his skin to have a very curious reaction."

He grips Will's hair and yanks his head up, and Will gasps, his eyes wide with fear when he sees the mask in Hannibal's hand. He struggles, snarling and snapping his teeth together, but cannot get away before Hannibal fits the muzzle over his nose and mouth.

The reaction is immediate; smoke fogs up the innards of the mask as Will screams, tears running down his face as his skin blisters around the edges in reaction to the silver in the mask. He struggles hard against Hannibal's grip and his bindings, the coarse rope rubbing deep abrasions into his wrists and ankles as Hannibal binds the leather straps around his head so he cannot shake the mask free.

Smoke spills out of the holes at the front of the mask as it burns itself into place on Will's skin. The creature howls raggedly, bloody saliva dripping from the mask as well as he shudders and goes limp. Hannibal smiles, and tilts his head up, so that the audience can see that, in response to his pain, all of Will's additional teeth have slid out of his gums and locked into place.

They gasp, collectively.

"As Lady Verger has confirmed, there is nothing special about this mask. There is no illusion." Hannibal's smile widens, preening in the wake of such a rapt audience. "But you know I am not one to give half-hearted demonstrations. You came to see a beast, and a beast is what I will show you."

Will's eyes flash, and he lets out a quiet, broken sound. Like a whipped animal.

Hannibal pets through his hair tenderly, and nods to Lady Verger. "Please, madame, if you would take your seat. This next part will get rather exciting."

Her eyes are wide, her face pale, but she nods and exits through the gate, taking her seat again. Hannibal snaps his fingers, and another pair of his helpers enter the stage from one of the wings. Each of them carries the end of a thick rope in their hands, and attached to the rope, bound by a collar, comes a large wolfhound. It is not a creature like Will, merely overlarge enough, and of a gentle enough temperament to entertain children. Its ears are forward, nostrils flaring and huge jaws parted in heavy, grunting breaths.

"I have found," Hannibal tells the audience, as the helpers lead the dog over to Will, "that while pain and hunting instinct encourages Will's change, the mating instinct is what brings about the most thorough and easiest transformation."

Will's head snaps up, and he looks at Hannibal with wide, teary eyes. He can't look behind himself, can't see the dog, but his nostrils are flared wide. A thin bead of blood runs down from the blisters over his nose.

"Please," he whispers, hoarse and wretched, hardly able to form the word around his additional teeth. "Please, no."

The audience whispers, quietly: He can speak!

Hannibal hums, and returns to his tray. On it is a wide tube, long enough to fit Will's cock inside it – he made sure of it. There is a suction piece around the entrance to it, and a small pump that he can squeeze to get the inflating plastic on the inside to tighten around Will.

The wolfhound's tail is wagging in excitement, the tip of its thick red cock peeking out from its sheath. It steps up to Will and noses at his flank and Will flinches, whimpering, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists.

Hannibal approaches Will's other side, and crouches down. He tugs on the strings connecting the little strip of cloth around Will's hips, which until now had done a paltry job of conserving his modesty. It is known that his more ostentatious demonstrations are not suitable for children, between the blood, the violence, and the performative sex. It is not his fault if the children come in here anyway. Not his fault if the parents remain and let their children watch.

He cradles Will's flaccid cock in his hand, taking a moment of self-indulgence to fondle the soft flesh. Will tenses for him, whining loudly, his breathing coming hard and ragged as he inevitably hardens under the stimulation, his thighs tensing in rhythm to Hannibal's smooth, gentle strokes. He has dedicated extensive time and study to Will's sex organs and mating impulses. It is fascinating to him; what mutations produce such abominations in the eyes of the Lord, if they are genetic or the result of some curse.

Once Will is hard enough for the device to grip him, Hannibal slides it over his cock until Will is fully seated within it. He pumps the inflator a few times and Will groans, muscles twitching in an aborted attempt to fuck forward.

He affixes the straps around the back of Will's thighs, highlighting the plumpness of his ass and the strong, thick muscles in his legs. He stands, and nods to his helpers, who lead the wolfhound to behind Will. Hannibal inserts himself between Will and the dog, petting idly between Will's legs, and up to his tight, dry entrance. His rim is pink and clenches under his touch, and Will sobs and moans helplessly, jerking against his restraints.

"I have theorized that Will's species, much like many Lycans, are attracted to animals more than humans," he tells his audience, in a voice hardly louder than a murmur. His eyes are on Will, on the heave of his strong, scarred back, the stark outline of his ribs as he breathes in deeply, the small dips at the base of his spine just begging for a hand to touch them. He does, unable to help himself, and Will shivers, his body going just a little bit lax as Hannibal forces a finger inside him.

He smiles. "You have the privilege, ladies and gentlemen, to be the first to witness if this theory has any merit."

With that, he gives Will's hip a cursory pat, and steps to one side to give the wolfhound full access to him. The animal snarls, ears forward and cock jutting slick from its sheath. It lunges for Will, mounting him easily. Will is positioned at the perfect height to allow penetration, and the way his arms are bound behind him form a perfect cradle for the hound's chest, his tense shoulders angled for the hound to flop its heavy paws across them for a place to grip.

The dog's hips jerk roughly, smearing the tip of its sticky-wet cock between Will's thighs. It huffs, and bites shallowly along Will's collar, and Will whimpers. His lashes flutter, lips parted and bloody, and he seems to collapse with submission, spreading his knees as much as he's able, hips canted up in open invitation.

Hannibal crouches down again and inflates the sheath around Will's cock further. As the hound finds Will's entrance and pierces him without warning or hesitation, Will screams, and yanks so hard at his ropes that the iron horseshoes rattle.

The dog snarls, tongue lolling thick and wet on Will's shoulder, ears back as it hauls itself over Will's body, fucking into him deeply. New tears fall from Will's eyes and he moans, head dropping, a powerful ripple running down his back in response to the dog's thrusts. It must hurt, Hannibal made no effort to prepare or slick him up, but animals don't worry about that kind of thing in the wild, so why should he?

Will's moans are not entirely from pain, though. Hannibal would know, he has certainly experimented with the beast often enough.

Will's body jerks with the wolfhound's determined, violent thrusts, and Hannibal smiles as he sees, very subtle, only noticeable from Hannibal's extensive study, the slight cracking at the corner of Will's jaws. The way his hair thickens, and grows darker, straighter with its undercoat. Hannibal reaches beneath him and wraps his fingers around the tube sheathing Will's cock, squeezing his fingers in rhythm to the wolfhound's thrusts as Will's cries get higher and more raw. Sweat coats his skin like rainwater, mixing with his tears, his burned and blistered face still gently steaming.

He stands, and the sound Will lets out is rough and needy.

"Lycans, as we all know, navigate their packs through a self-imposed hierarchy," he says, wiping his hands on a wet cloth handed to him by a helper, which he folds and sets on the tray where Will's mask had been. "What determines these social classes is not yet entirely clear, but there are theories. The male and female who are the strongest, or the most fertile, or the oldest, et cetera."

He picks up a pair of silver tongs. The grips of them are carved into a set of teeth, two overextended on either side to give the sensation of biting fangs. They shine in the bright light and Hannibal turns, his eyes dark, attention ravenous on the sight of Will as he is mercilessly fucked by Hannibal's hound. The dog's ears are back, he's snarling, tail beginning to lift and haunches tensed.

"Nevertheless," he breathes. "They share one thing in common."

Will whimpers, blinking up through teary eyes as Hannibal approaches him again. His irises shine with that reflective glow reminiscent of cat eyes, his extra set of teeth bared. Hannibal smiles, petting through his hair, and works his fingers below Will's thick leather collar, nudging his wolfhound's head out of the way and baring the chafed, red-raw nape of Will's neck.

He feeds the tongs in below the leather, parts them, and clamps them down hard.

Will howls, screaming as his body shivers and splits. Between his fingers, the skin splits and from the holes come sharp claws. His jaw cracks, silver burning anew on his flesh as his human skin melts away, revealing a powerful canine jaw and blood-slick, black fur.

Hannibal smiles. He digs the tongs in and traps a slip of skin between them, peeling it back as Will's neck thickens, and scruff sprouts up in wet tufts around the shredded remains of his flesh. With the collar on, he cannot transform all the way, lest he choke to death, but it's enough for his audience to get the idea. His hound's claws have torn at Will's shoulders and flanks, revealing more glimpses of bloody black fur.

His wolfhound snarls, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. Hannibal wraps his fingers around its muzzle and clamps down so it doesn't bite Will, as the dog's hips twitch, judder, and press flat. Will whimpers as his knot locks, and Hannibal closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Will's sweat and blood, as Will trembles and collapses so heavily. He can't catch his breath, with the collar so tight and his arms bound as they are.

Hannibal waves over his helpers and they take his hound's ropes, forcing him to dismount Will. Will hisses, snarling and wincing as his swollen knot catches, but ultimately is tugged free, a thick gush of come spilling from his torn-open hole.

Will is still very much only half-changed. His true beast form, when Hannibal saw it, walked on four legs, large enough to rival a horse. It was black and thick-furred and had eyes that shone with intelligence, a beautiful creature with bared fangs and raised hackles.

This facsimile, this glimpse into the beast, is no match for it. But Hannibal doesn't charge his audience for true wonders, just entertaining sideshows.

Slowly, as Will tries to recover his breath and Hannibal carefully removes the tongs, which drip blood and clotting flesh, and the wolfhound is led away, there is a scattering applause. First tentative, as though afraid to interrupt him. And then it grows louder and more raucous.

Hannibal smiles, content with another show well done. He bows, and then gestures for the curtains to close, confident that his audience will tire themselves out applauding him and that this new attraction will be the talk of the town. The collection plates will be full to the brim as they exit, he knows.

He approaches Will, who is still sobbing, retching into his mask. "Hush, shh, sweet boy," he coaxes. He works his fingers beneath the brown leather straps of Will's muzzle, undoes them with utmost care and lets the mask fall to the ground. The scent of Will's tears is sharp as it falls, and he breathes in deeply. "You did very well. Quiet now."

Will obeys, his whines quieting to distressed, near-silent sobs, body trembling. Hannibal sets the tongs down to one side – Will's change is easy, from man to monster, but the way back requires a lot more hands-on help. It requires flesh to be ripped from the bone and fur stripped away, like cleaning a jewel of the stubborn cover of mountain rock.

He crouches, deflating the sheath for Will and smiling when he finds that, despite his pain, Will managed to reach completion during the performance. It likely happened when Hannibal 'bit' his nape. Most Lycans respond positively to that.

He touches Will's flaccid, dripping cock idly, pleased when Will hisses and tries to draw his knees together, tries to hide.

"Please," he rasps, his throat hoarse from howling. "Please, stop. Let me go."

Hannibal laughs. "So that you can meet your end at a hunter's gun?" he replies, shaking his head as though Will is a child that asked to touch the moon. He stands, releasing Will, and comes around to his face again. He kneels and cups the creature's blistered face in his hands. Will flinches, and gasps, his eyes wide. The red circle around his nose and mouth makes his eyes shine so prettily.

"You need only suffer until they tire of you," Hannibal assures him. Will swallows, and Hannibal watches as his extra set of teeth, slowly, slide back into place, disappearing into his gums. Will glares at him, still breathing hard, and Hannibal's smile widens. "Don't fret, darling," he purrs, petting Will's sweaty hair back from his face. Will finches when he touches the blisters on his face, and Hannibal hums.

He leans in, and licks over Will's jaw, up his cheek, following the dark red, raised scabs of blisters on his face. Will flinches from him again, and then gasps in shock as, under Hannibal's saliva, the skin dulls to a cool, flushed pink. The blisters heal, and begin to fade away.

Will looks at him, eyes wide in question.

"We are not so different," Hannibal tells him with a meaningful look. "There is no reason you cannot earn your place outside of a cage, as I did."

"What are you?" Will demands.

Hannibal smiles. "Something much older than you," he replies. "And much more adaptable. Now, if you promise not to attack me, I will untie you and let you bathe. If you behave yourself, you will be rewarded." He pets through Will's hair again, noting that the undercoat of his beast form is beginning to thin. Some of it will melt into the rest of his hair, some of it will fall out in clumps. "I can give you as many studs as will satisfy you, and fresh meat, and in exchange for a few performative discomforts, anything else you could ever want."

He grips Will's chin and forces their eyes to meet. "Well?"

Will wets his lips, and dips his gaze in surrender. Breathes out, and says, "I can be good."

Hannibal nods, and kisses the bridge of Will's nose. He licks over it, letting out a pleased hum when the skin there, too, begins to heal. "Excellent," he purrs, in a way that makes every inch of Will shiver. He tightens his hand around Will's chin in warning, and steals a kiss from his bloodied, panting mouth.

Will whimpers, but resists the urge to bite him, and Hannibal smiles. "Good boy."


End file.
